Play Dead (43 page)

Mark swallowed hard. A tear came to his eye. 'Tomorrow night, Mr Seidman. Seven p.m.'

She hung up. Mark quietly replaced the receiver and moved toward the car waiting for him outside. He opened the passenger door and got in. 'I just got a call from Judy Simmons.'

T.C.'s reaction was swift and predictable. 'What did she say?'

'She thinks I'm David Baskin. She says Baskin was not told the whole truth.'

'Not told the truth? What the hell does that mean?'

'I'm not sure. She said it had to do with what happened thirty years ago.'

T.C. bit off the end of a cigar. 'Interesting, no?'

Mark shrugged. 'Depends on what she means.'

'Could she be right?' T.C. asked. 'Could Baskin have been deceived?'

'You're the detective. You tell me. I mean, I guess it's possible. But how? And more important, why? What would have been gained?'

'I don't know,' T.C. agreed, 'but she really has no idea what Baskin knew, does she?'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning she might think Baskin didn't know the whole story when in fact he did.'

The car pulled out of the parking lot. Mark stared out the side window. 'She also said that if I ever wanted to save Laura from what she called unspeakable cruelty, I should go to Colgate tomorrow night.'

'What else did she say?'

'That if I did not go, she would find another way of handling it.'

'She said that?'

Mark nodded.

T.C. gripped the wheel firmly, his face tightening. 'Well, we certainly can't let her do that, now can we?'

Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Wake up, Stan! Time to call your daddy's murderer!

'Ooooooh, my fuckin' head.'

Stan rolled over onto his back. What a goddamn hangover. Just like the good old days. His hand reached out, smacked the alarm clock and pulled it toward him.

One p.m.

He put the clock back onto the night-table. Breathing through his nose hurt like a son of a bitch. It was probably broken. He'd have to get it taken care of at the hospital. Later. He had things to do now.

He stood and walked over to the mirror. His face looked like shit. Both his eyes were black from the broken nose, and his complexion was white from vomiting up a storm last night. Bits and pieces of the incident in the bathroom came to him, but it was all so fuzzy. A man jumps him, dunks his head in a toilet bowl till he nearly drowns him, then knocks him out. Strange but true. And what had the guy said to him? Something about keeping away from 'her.' He assumed 'her' meant Laura.

Stan wondered if Laura could have hired the guy. Doubtful. The most obvious suspect was T.C., but that was not T.C.'s voice he heard whispering in his ear.

His mind replayed his conversation with Laura, wondering for the zillionth time how he could have been so stupid. Why create an adversary in a woman as powerful as Laura? Why not just forget about her and go on? He was happy with Gloria. He was going to have all the money he wanted. So why screw it all up? Why did he always need to mess up his life?

But, alas, that was his way. Stan always managed to keep one foot firmly placed in dung. He would try like hell to pull it out. He would pull and tug, straining with everything he had. His foot would slowly come loose from the filth, lift in the air, and then Stan would notice that his other foot was now firmly entrenched in another pile of dung.

Stan headed into the den and collapsed on the couch. That was enough life analysis for one morning, thank you. He sat down by the phone and rubbed his hands together nervously. A thin film of sweat coated his body.

It was time to place that little call.

For a brief moment, he felt repulsion at what he was about to do. How he could just let the murder of his father slide. How he could allow himself to be bought off by his father's killer. His father had been one of the very few people in this world who truly loved him. Maybe the only one.

Stan reached for the bottle of vodka and poured himself a healthy shot. Better not to think about it like that. Better to consider the phone call a normal business transaction, a very profitable one. Yes, that was the best way to look at it.

He went back into the bathroom, shaved, showered, sprinkled on a few dabs of Old Spice and threw on a sweatsuit. After he finished a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice (with a touch of vodka for taste), he picked up the phone and called his father's murderer.

Judy hung up the phone on Mark Seidman and renewed her pacing. What next? The answer was pretty clear: call the one person in the world who would not think she was crazy, the one person who would understand her suspicions. And it just so happened that that one person loved Laura more than life itself.

James.

She and James had spoken a few times once they had realized that David's death had been no accident, that he had in all likelihood committed suicide. They had even considered the possibility that Mary was somehow responsible for the drowning. Now Judy realized that they had only skimmed the surface in their skepticism over David's 'accidental' death. The rumblings underneath were just beginning to show. It scared Judy and it brought her hope. She knew that James would feel the same but the truth was that they both loved Laura and wanted what was best for her. James might even figure out a way of salvaging the situation without bringing back the past.

Maybe. But not likely.

'Let me speak to Dr Ayars, please. This is his sister-in-law. '

'Please hold.'

A moment later, James's voice came through. 'Judy?'

So authoritative, so controlled -- it had been part of the reason she had fallen for him all those years ago. Her heart had been brutally crushed when she lost him to Mary, though she never let it show. She stepped aside gracefully as poor, sweet Judy had always done, stepped out of her leading role as fiancee and into the bit part of Mary's maid of honor. She met Sinclair Baskin a few months after losing James. He mended her heart to the stage where she was able to forget all about Mary's husband.

A few months later, her heart was crushed again, never to recover.

'I need to speak to you,' she said. 'Are you alone?'

'Yes. What is it?'

She took a deep breath, not really sure how to begin. 'Did you notice anything strange at the game last night?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean anything unusual.'

'I've got a dozen patients in the waiting room, Judy. Can we please stop playing cat-and-mouse?'

Again she wondered what to say. 'Did you notice Mark Seidman?'

'The rookie? Of course. Brilliant player.'

'And his jumpshot?'

'What about it?'

'Didn't it look familiar?'

'It was like David's. So what? What are you getting at -- ?' He stopped speaking. His mouth dropped open. When he was finally able to talk again, his words came softly. 'You don't mean ...'

'I do.'

'But how? It makes no sense.'

'It makes perfect sense. Think about it a second. Didn't you call me after that meeting with David's attorney and say that you were no longer sure David committed suicide?'

'Yes,' James agreed, 'but that was because his money was missing. I thought there was a remote possibility that someone had murdered him to get it.'

'Think it through again, James. Wouldn't a murder be a terribly strange coincidence?'

'Maybe,' James allowed, 'but what you're suggesting is preposterous.'

'Is it? Or is it the only answer that completely fits?'

'How could David have possibly pulled it off?'

'Not easily, I assure you. He would have needed help. Probably from T.C. -- '

' -- who was the first one to get over to Australia when Laura discovered that David was missing,' James added.

'Exactly.'

'But we have to admit it's a pretty wild theory, Judy. And that's all it is right now: theory. There's not one shred of proof. We can't just go off half-cocked on a supposition. Think of the repercussions involved.'

'I know all about the repercussions.'

'Then what do you think we should do?'

Judy sighed. As usual James was right. In the end, this was only another in a series of crazy hypotheses by a frustrated English teacher. 'We'll move slowly, but it has to be investigated.'

'The sooner, the better,' James said. 'This can't wait. I'll go to the bank and try to track down the missing money.'

'Good.'

Pause. 'Have you spoken to Mary?' he asked.

'Are you joking? Who knows how she'd react?'

'I agree. Goodbye, Judy.'

'Good luck, James. Let me know what you find out.'

Graham Rowe scanned the telephone bill. He could have gotten the bill from the phone company, but if he had made that request, the government might just want to find out what he was investigating. And if something big was going on, if Dr Bivelli and the Aussie Feds were working with this T.C. fella, poking his nose where it didn't belong could prove hazardous to his health.

This is not my cup of tea, Graham thought. He was a simple, small-town sheriff. He liked fishing, hunting, and downing a few Fosters at Luke's Pub in town. Not too many, mind you, but a nice cold one now and again helps set a man straight.

Conspiracy, complications, murders -- he avoided them like a leper colony. And what was he risking his neck for anyway? From the looks of things, the actual drowning occurred in Cairns. They had a whole police department over there. He could just hand the whole thing over to them, sit back in his chair, and catch a little cat-nap.

You'd like that, Graham ol' boy, wouldn't you? he thought. But in truth, David Baskin had been vacationing in his jurisdiction. His wife had come to him for help. She could be in real trouble and Graham Rowe was not the sort of man who turned away from a woman in danger.

He grabbed a pen and circled all the calls on the bill that had gone to the United States. There were a total of seven made on June 17th. The big sheriff had all seven numbers checked out quickly. Three were tourists calling their family in California. One was to Texas. One was even to something called SportsPhone in Cleveland. As he expected, dead ends.

The same however could not be said for the last two calls, both placed to the Boston area from the phone extension in the lobby -- the same extension that Baskin had used. Once again, Graham stared at his findings and wished they would change.

Damn. Why did it have to be this way?

He shook his head. No use in putting it off. He might as well call Laura and get it over with. She was about to be one unhappy little lady.

The call connected rapidly. In a matter of seconds, he heard Laura pick up the phone. 'Hello, luv,' he said.

'Graham?' Laura asked, 'is that you?'

He tried to sound jovial. Why he did so he had no idea. 'You know somebody else with an Aussie accent?'

'Have you learned anything? Have they found the passport cards?'

'Yes and no.'

'Give me the no first.'

'No, the passport cards have not been located yet. We should have them sometime tomorrow.'

'And the yes?'

He let go a long sigh. 'We have the phone bill.'

'Were calls placed to Boston?'

He closed his eyes. 'Yes. Two of them. Both from the lobby of the hotel.'

Laura's pulse quickened. 'Who did he call, Graham?' 'One of the calls we already knew about. As we expected, he did call the Heritage of Boston Bank.'

'And the other call?'

He could hear the eager and troubled tone in her voice. 'Laura, he called T.C. They spoke for nearly an hour.'

Graham's words rammed into her midsection. All her worst fears had come full circle. Another lie from T.C. Last night, he claimed that he had never met Mark Seidman. When she saw them sneak out together, she felt a knowing dread crawl over her. He had lied. Somehow, Mark Seidman was connected with all of this. Somehow, the Celtics rookie had a part in this little plot.

'Laura? You still there?'

'Yes, Graham. Is there anything else?'

'Not yet.'

'Thank you for calling.'

'No worries. But Laura, let's take this slowly, shall we? If T.C. does have something to do with this, it might not pay to let on quite yet. In fact, it might be rather dangerous.'

Laura remembered what T.C. had said to her just a few days ago. 'You've already put your life in jeopardy and now you've chased away the killer. I wanted them to think they were in the clear. It makes them careless.'

Careless, huh? Maybe it was time to put the shoe on the other foot. Maybe she should let T.C. think he was safe in his web of lies, let him think she had given up on going after the truth behind David's drowning. And then maybe, just maybe, he would be the one to get careless.

'I'll be careful,' she said.

Richard Corsel sat with his fingers on the computer keyboard. He was not typing, not just at this second. For the third time that day, the super-advanced Heritage of Boston Bank computer system had gone down. Richard stared at the blank screen.